


The Boston Basher

by Propernicethat



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blowjobs, Brother/Brother Incest, Cock Rings, Cock Slut, Come Swallowing, Desperate and Needy, F/M, Finger Sucking, Frotting, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incest, Lust, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Military Uniforms, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Nail Bat, Necrophilia, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Skull Fucking, Spanking, Teeth, The Boston Basher - Freeform, Threesome - M/M/M, Tooth Removal, Treating People Like Animals, Violence, rape mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Propernicethat/pseuds/Propernicethat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Adventures of the Boston Basher. Boston's violent Serial Killer turned Mercenary . A deranged, muscle bound, rat faced bastard who just really bloody loves violence. Follow him on his deranged escapades of cruelty, non consensual sex, alcohol abuse and of course, lots and lots of murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lepidoptera

**Author's Note:**

> This guy has been living in my head since forever.

_“Butcher Pete's got a long sharp knife,_  
_He starts choppin' and don't know when to stop,_  
_All you fellows gotta’ watch your wifes,_  
_'Cause Pete don't care who's meat he chops.”_

Each swing emitted a sickening crunch to follow. Arms once thin and gangly were now rippling with a threatening force behind the maple and white ash construction in his batting hand. One swing would dent the skull; the second would smash it to pieces within its flesh and blood prison. With this particular target things had been considerably complicated. He was a NOC, not a NID, two instructions on the contract meant two very important outcomes, both of which were two very different pay checks. 

The bat had spikes. Big ones too. One at the pinnacle of the bat so long and so sharp that when the big bastard punctured a skull; it took a foot to the kisser and a heave of the biceps in order to separate metal from collagen. Oh, and there was blood, there was always lots of blood. It got on the deck, it got on the walls, it got on the furniture and it was unavoidable to not get it on skin. 

Boy had a strange face too, kind of like a rat. Ears too big and buckteeth like you wouldn’t believe. Unintelligent, dull blue eyes and a slightly upturned nose, growing up as a gangly youth with long limbs, too tall and not enough muscle. Inbred, his mother also his sister; she was a serial drug trafficker. His father, a serial rapist, it was only natural that their spawn would become a serial killer. You didn’t need to be intelligent to do what he did, but quite honestly, it did help. 

_“He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'_  
_He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'_  
_He's hackin' and wackin' and smackin'_  
_He just hacks, wacks, choppin' that meat.”_

Inside the diner, nobody was any the wiser. It was three thirty PM, the kiddies were coming out of school and judging from the high pitched voices within the establishment’s public area, they and their parents or maybe just in groups of friends were coming to get a bite to eat. If it was your birthday you could even get yourself a free dessert, if you had ID of course. No, nobody was any the wiser and it was because nobody had ordered food yet. Milkshakes, coffee, cakes from the dessert counter, yes, but no bacon and no sausage and no pulled pork or curly fries. Nobody bothered Chef Jones.

First he’d taken a meat cleaver; he hadn’t trusted the kitchen to supply him with anything sharp enough so he always brought his own. It was nice and smooth and just narrow enough to enter an open human mouth. Nice big mouth too, with a lot of drool and flared red lips that looked good hanging loosely over the steel handle of the projectile. And yeah, it had been a projectile because the big bastard had thrown it full force across the room with accuracy that any Olympic archer would be jealous of. The target, Chef Jones had opened his mouth to scream only to receive a mouthful of metal. It didn’t kill him but you can only imagine it hurt like a bitch. The full force had sent his back to the treated wood wall, pinning him there like Lepidoptera framed in glass and on display, however unlike the pretty moths and butterflies this bastard was still very much alive. In too much shock to make any sound other than strangled grunts and groans, which emanated weakly from a punctured lingual artery. His voice was replaced by a raspy retch, followed by bubbles of thick, meaty, red blood; which oozed from the open wound, a personal, steady little river that flowed all the way to the handle of the cleaver. 

“Do you know what NOC means, fella’?”

Bostonian accent, but laced with something else, something like a crossbreed between a slur and a stutter. The dumb, vacant look on the mongrels face matched his voice; he sounded slow and stupid and was always judged as such. Of course, Chef Jones didn’t have an answer to his question.

“Means ‘No Open Casket’, means I gotta’ make your face look reeeeeal ugly. How’d you like that?”

He stepped over the body of a previous fella’, this guy, Max, according to his name badge, had been a witness and you seriously don’t wanna’ be a witness. You know why not? ‘Cause the contract says no witnesses, it ain’t rocket science. Always follow the Contract. He’d bashed Max’s face in so hard that the lad’s teeth had receded back into their gums. His skull had dented first then flattened, and he’d wacked and smacked so hard the boy’s head was now a bloody flat slab of meat, a puddle of mangled flesh and splintered, broken bone. When he’d passed Max, this fella’, pulled the handle of his bat, you know that spike I mentioned earlier? The real sharp one at the top? Yeah, that was jammed in the guy’s throat, but not for long ‘cause the lad pulled it hard enough to dislodge, in order to take it with him. 

_“Wakes up in the morning, half past five!_  
_Chops from sunrise to sunset,_  
_I don't see how he stays alive,_  
_Meat's gonna’ be the death of ole Pete, yeah!”_

There was no more idle chatter, no more time to loose. A mess to make and work to do. The boy from Boston, who’d once been so frail and thin had worked his body with pure determination alone. Each punch against the bag concocted a battered face in his mind. Each weight he’d lift was a lifeless corpse raised over his shoulders and head. At first he’d scrapped with others on the way home from the gym, purposely coaxing larger men to hit him, but soon that scrapping became something more and as he grew from boy to man, scrapping became fighting. Where scrapping had always ended with bruises and broken bones, fighting ended with only one thing, a violent death for his opponent. The bat had become an extension of his arm and was much less a hindrance to his job when broken, as opposed to fingers, knuckles and wrists. Reliable but replaceable. That rat faced bastard was a brute, suffering years of torment and abuse and being the victim, the weak, frightened boy. This had only fuelled his determination to become a monster. 

And a Monster he’d definitely become.

He swung the bat like a major league champ, the first swing had effortlessly ended Chef Jones’ life, smashing his nose back into his face, forehead caving in and mingling with fat clots of blood, which matted into his head of curly hair. The body lurched forward for a five second seizure, spasming against the cleaver that kept it pinned against the wall. The force alone to the cranium had caused one eye to pop from its socket, the concaved cavity filling immediately with more blood. The other eye had combusted from impact and was now mangled into the mess of Chef Jones’ face. 

_“He's hackin' and whackin' and smackin'_  
_He's hackin' and whackin' and smackin'_  
_He's hackin' and whackin' and smackin'_  
_He just hacks, whacks, choppin' that meat.”_

By the third swing, the neck had snapped away and the weight of the body caused it to slump to the kitchen floor. The head hung onto the cleaver by the throat with a sheet of flesh, arteries and muscles for only a moment before following the body, dropping to the floor with a sickening crunch. One more whack and the head recoiled up before popping and cracking and exploding when it hit the floor. It was no longer a head; he was no longer Chef Jones. Polaroid came out next, smile for the camera Jones. Snap. Snap. Snap. Beautiful. He slammed said camera into his leather jacket, wife-beater sticking to him underneath with sweat. Retrieving his cleaver, he walked to the open fire exit, the utensil now at his belt and a hand in his bleach blonde, greased back hair that was now sprinkled with tiny flecks of red.

Something stopped him. 

The Radio was still belting out that merry tune, nice radio too. He snatched it up between big, once clumsy fingers and switched the dial all the way to off, pushed down the antennae and took the bloody thing under his arm. 

He’d been many things in his life. A throwback inbred runt, a youth tainted with torture and molestation, a frustrated adult, a murder addicted monster and now a hired professional. Nobody knew his name, nobody knew his story, but everyone, yeah, and everyone knew exactly who this guy was. 

He was the Boston Basher.


	2. Defile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buttercream belongs to Plukan on tumblr.

Home was filthy. Windows if not smashed were covered in a thick layer of grime. Door battered and dented from repeated police raids. Kitchen had more cockroaches than it did food and the ceiling had fallen in from upstairs. The floors were filthy and if you stood in one place too long the soles of your shoes would stick to it. Where there was carpet it was yellowed and cigarette stained, thick clouds of smoke were everywhere because everyone was always puffing. 

That big bastard was reclined on the beaten up leather couch. White wife beater with pit stains, sticking to his back with sweat. Blonde hair was the only thing impeccable on his body, every golden strand styled to perfection, Greased Lightning. On his lap was his Sister, but she was also his Mother. She was dressed in a tiny mini dress, clinging to her thin, drug afflicted, and malnourished body. She was kissing his neck, all the way up to his jaw line in a way that a Sister, neither a Mother should. Her rough lips traced his neck to his mouth, and they locked, while his large hands travelled down her fragile, weak body. When they withdrew, he smacked her ass and she climbed off, not making any effort to pull down her hiked up skirt that revealed the lack of panties. 

“Go order the food.”

He grunted, scratching his chest as he watched her go into the kitchen without another word. 

“What are you two looking at? I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Eyes narrowed on the two bodies occupying the small square of living room carpet. Both boys and both in their early twenties. When clothed they were considerably fashionable. One with a blue Mohawk, large intelligent eyes and a handsome smile. The other brown haired with large, thick thighs and a little taller. Both related to the Boston Basher, ten years younger. Mother had given birth to one only to be taken by their father hours after, only to get pregnant again like a breeding rabbit. Despite the year age gap they looked as though they could have been twins. The Brown haired boy had buckteeth like his big brother, the blue haired had been a little luckier with his genetics. Both were touching each other all over, the Blue haired completely naked save for some knee high baseball socks, the Brown haired was wearing only a loose basketball vest. Brown hair was on top, biting and licking, buttocks raised high, balls and cock hanging for only a moment before grinding up against a spread open entrance. The Boston Basher, [ Or affectionately nicknamed BB by his family. ] watched his two younger brothers as the older penetrated the younger. He loved everything about these boys. He loved the Brown haired boy’s big thighs and meaty buttocks, and he loved the Blue haired boy’s innocent face and freckles. The Blue haired boy was always noisy, mouth opening and drooling as he was repeatedly fucked by his older brother, cheek to the floor, rutting him so hard his body was sliding against the worn, yellowing carpet. 

XXX

Things hadn’t always been so good for the Boston Basher. Growing up, his family could barely afford for him to go to school and at thirteen he’d dropped out entirely. His father had begun teaching him the tricks of the trade when it came to dealing and trafficking, but his mother wanted him to have a more respectable job. She found him one cleaning ash trays in a local downtown bar, and for ten hours a week the Boston boy with the blonde hair earned two whole dollars, which his Father took. Soon they had him washing dishes and mopping the floor too, he was endlessly victimised by the bar staff and customers. They teased him about his slight lisp, his stutter, his mop of greasy long hair and his buckteeth and gangly thin arms. 

But all of this changed when he met Dr Ribsteine. 

The door to the establishment had opened and all conversations halted, eyes turning. It was like one of those old Wild West movies. Standing at 6’6, with broad shoulders he was wrapped in a cream military style coat, which lifted and moved behind him with his powerful stride. Everything about him demanded absolute obedience; he radiated pure, unquestionable dominance. He only had to raise a hand and display two fingers and the bar keep knew exactly what the man wanted. The blonde scruffy boy could only watch in awe as the German made his way to an empty table. The large man made him feel even smaller and even more insignificant than he had ever felt in his entire life. He watched in silence, small back against the bar, eyes trembling in their sockets, he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. The small blonde boy was given a push to his back, turning around and receiving a tray in his hand occupied by two glasses of bourbon. 

“Take it to him. Don’t fuck around lad.”

And he did as he was told. Approaching the table, watching as the man lit his pipe, dark rounded glasses covering most of his eyes, peaked cap that may have originally been of military origins, hiding his face. The young boy set the two glasses down on the table and turned to walk away when he felt a gloved hand grab his wrist. A shiver crept up his spine before he began to tremble all over, feeling those narrow, obscured eyes on his body. 

“Hair.”

He simply said. His voice cracked and laced with gravel, suggesting he didn’t use it very often. German accent, not that the boy could identify it as such. Instead he was baffled; a hand moving up to the greasy mop of blonde locks the large man was referring to.

“M-My hair…?”

The boy managed, swallowing a lump in his throat. 

“Cut.”

“My hair?”

“Yes.”

The domineering German took a long drag of his pipe, shrouded in mist for a small moment before removing it from his lips, replacing the pipe with the first glass. The blonde boy could see the Bar tender signalling him to move and he did as he was told. Instinctually he lowered himself, backing away from the German before going back to the bar, only to be scolded first then interrogated after. 

 

The next time Dr Ribsteine visited, it was a week later on the same day of Tuesday. His black leather knee high boots were cleaned to perfection and made the perfect, attention grabbing thud with each step. Everything was the same as the last, silence, two fingers held up, and seat taken at a vacant table. However, this time the boy had cut his hair, as instructed. His Mother had started it, cutting awkwardly and nervously and his Father had finished, shaving the back and sides. After that his Father had beaten his Mother for doing a terrible job, but he’d been too busy admiring himself in the cracked bathroom mirror to care. For once in his life he felt good about how he looked, his new hair felt good, but there was something missing. 

When the blonde boy approached the table, holding the tray and two glasses, the German stopped him. He had the boy still hold the tray while bringing a hand out to take his chin, turning it and inspecting him carefully. The dark glasses suggested that the Domineering man had difficulties with his vision, perhaps some sensitivity, but it didn’t seem to hinder him one bit as he continued his inspection. Without a word he removed from his coat pocket a small pot, opening it up and slicking his gloved fingers up. He then brought them to the boy’s hair at the front, which currently hung down. He twisted it with his fingers and pulled back, creating a smart, slick quiff on top of the boy’s forehead. With the remaining gel, he smoothed down the boy’s remaining hair. When satisfied with his work, he tapped the table with his index finger, indicating that the boy place the tray down and serve him his drinks.

“Thank you Sir.”

This certainly wasn’t the last time he called that man Sir. 

XXX

“How’re my two little desserts doing?”

The Boston Basher chuckled, watching as the two boys on the filthy floor crawled over to him. The Blue haired clung onto his knee, while the Brown haired pushed himself up into his older brother’s lap more demandingly. 

“So good, BB.”

“Please BB.”

At this point the Brown haired boy was kissing his older brother’s neck, thighs trembling as he raised his buttocks, wanton and desperate, the two younger brothers were like a pair of bitches in heat. The Brown haired boy was named Angel Delight and the Blue haired, Buttercream. The Boston Basher believed them to be as equally tasty as their dessert counterparts. 

It wasn’t long before both boys were demanding their big brother’s attention. Two sets of mouths on either sides of his neck, hands roaming a sweat covered body, touching his chest, groping his crotch. They climbed up onto the couch, each one with thighs around each knee, asses presenting and wanton. He swatted those asses, fondled and groped their tight balls and hard cocks. They’d cling onto him tightly; mouths against either of his ears as he inserted his index and middle fingers into each of their puckered, red holes, beginning to repeatedly fuck them with the digits. They clung onto his tank top tighter; they cried out and begged for more, fucking themselves on his fingers. They mewled and squealed noisily, desperate for more, rocking themselves.

“Don’t you dare cum, Angel. I want to make sure you cover your little brother’s pretty little face.”

The Brown haired boy had a habit of cumming too quickly and was often beaten by their older, blonde brother for it. He tried to squirm away from the intruding fingers, shaking his head and whimpering in desperation. The Boston Basher removed his fingers, slapping the boy’s ass hard before forcing the soiled fingers to the Blue haired boy’s mouth, who obediently lapped them clean, shuddering and whimpering as he repeatedly fucked himself on those fingers that were still working him. 

“Now, get on the floor, show your brother how much you want his cum.”

Buttercream didn’t protest or ask any questions as he slipped off the Boston Basher’s lap, moving on his knees, hands in his lap and opening his mouth wide. The Basher turned the other brother, Angel, in his lap, spreading his thighs and holding him there. 

“Go on, I want to see you cum now boy.”

He whispered against the Brown haired brother’s ear, watching as he began to jerk himself, aiming into his younger brother’s open mouth. It didn’t take long and with a harsh cry and a small pathetic whimper, he squirted his load directly into the open waiting mouth. Buttercream, the blue haired boy, obediently swallowed Angel Delight’s cum down, dribbling only a little out of his mouth. 

“Good boy…good boys.”

The Boston Basher praised, watching as Angel Delight climbed out of his lap and hugged his younger brother tightly. They cuddled up on the carpet like a pair of exhausted canines, holding each other’s hands tightly and kissing gently. 

Like a pair of rabbits it wasn’t long before they were fucking again, the Boston Basher stood up and moved to the kitchen with the sole intention of defiling his own Mother.


	3. Blonde Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little development chapter.

The Swapsies club downtown always had a fun policy not to discriminate against its members. The Swingers club had been well known for many years due to its constant refurbishment and its owner’s creativity when constructing different themes for its rooms. Every time you’d visit the Swapsies, there was always something or someone new to see or do. It could be anything from a School girl theme with naked pass the parcel and pop quizzes to raunchier, more sophisticated scenes such as masked balls and cocktail dinners. 

One thing was for certain with the Swapsies club, people were always naked and people were always having sex. There was no dance floor for awkward flirting, neither a bar for awkward introductions. It was an enter the building with your partner, swap your clothes for a coloured straw each, then you looked around the club for the other couple whom of which held the matching coloured straws. If you didn’t like what you saw, you’re very much allowed to leave; however, you won’t be invited back. Not to mention how awkward it was, redressing in the hallway.

Yes, Swapsies, though the club was keen to not discriminate against those willing to participate, it was extremely aggressive to those who discriminated against others. It wasn’t unheard of for rude or rule breaking couples to be thrown out and onto the streets, their clothing, if they were lucky, following not soon after. However, there was a rule exception for one particular blonde haired geezer. 

The Boston Basher, or BB as he was affectionately nicknamed by his family, had the swagger on him like a well hung bull. Sporting a slumped hoody with some kind of boxing motif sprawled across the chest and some baggy running pants littered with golden rings from fallen cigarette ash. That blonde hair was impeccable as always, slicked back and with more volume than a frat boy’s sub-woofer system. On his arm was a small, scrawny woman in a tiny red dress, she was his lover, but she was also his sister and his mother. She had small hands, which she held onto his large bicep with; her red lips were kissing up his arm and along his neck. When the pair arrived at the club the two doormen parted the way and opened the doors without a word. They passed the straw giver, who began to make idle chatter with the Basher’s mother as she undressed. They exchanged conversation as if casually stood at the bus stop or discussing the weather, he took the only article of clothing she’d been wearing, the dress, and a pair of tall pink heels. 

While the Boston Basher moved up the club’s stairs and headed towards the office, Mama went off to find a couple to ravish her. It didn’t take long and soon the filthy slut was full of nice, juicy cock. BB always told her she had a cunt like a bucket, he wasn’t wrong, but she always found someone nice and big to please her. In return she’d tell the Basher that her cunt wasn’t a bucket, it was the fact that his cock was so small it didn’t touch the sides. The conversation often ended in them shouting, swinging punches then fucking, loudly. 

The Basher knocked once on the Office door before moving in. The place was all black furniture, huge mahogany desk adorned with a red silk table cloth at the far end of the room. Bookshelves lined the back wall and candles were lit, flickering and creating spirals and shadow creatures along the bare cream walls. 

“You always did like ‘em young and blonde.” 

The Basher spoke, words directed towards the man comfortably seated behind the expensive desk. The owner of the establishment was a former employer of the blonde haired brute. A tall German man who wore striking suits that often resembled uniforms, knee high patent boots and when out, a peaked hat. He had a domineering, aggressive and intimidating presence, eyes cold and face never moving like a painting. 

“Money.”

Came the German accent, a black gloved hand stroking down the back of a young blonde lad with large blue eyes, whom of which happened to be seated in his lap. While he was dressed to the nines in tailor made clothing, the blonde boy wore nothing, he writhed and nuzzled and kissed the Doctor’s neck like a troublesome feline, but the man didn’t seem to mind, neither acknowledge him. 

“Yeah yeah yeah, don’t get ya’ bratwurst in a twist!”

Reaching into his back pocket and slamming a pile of notes onto the expensive surface. No more words were exchanged, but the Basher grinned and the German’s eyebrow quirked. He’d lean forward and the boy would fall off his lap, then as the Doctor began to count the notes the sound of his expensive pants unzipping was heard, followed by greedy sucking, the man didn’t even flinch. 

Dr.Ribsteine and the Basher hadn’t always been so casual with one another, in fact, at one point he’d been in that boy’s position. However, it’d never once been that comfortable. 

XXX

“N-No! A-AH! I’m…I’m..Sorry Sir!”

The Basher, still in his youth had been in the German man’s employ for just over two weeks when he’d received his first punishment.

XXX

After seeing the way he’d been treated at the bar, the man had simply taken the boy with him one day, nobody argued. The blonde boy never saw his father again, but he didn’t care. He lived within the Doctor’s residence, a clinic attached to a huge mansion, which he was required to clean, but first the Doctor was to clean him. 

The German had the boy strip off in the bathroom, watching him, scrutinising every inch of his body as he trembled, standing in the tub completely naked. When the man switched on the shower it was ice cold and the Blonde boy cried out, shrinking away from the water until it warmed. Those leather gloved hands began touching him, rubbing oil into his skin, thoroughly cleaning the filth from his body. No body part went missed and soon he was allowed from the tub and wrapped in a towel. 

For the rest of the night Doctor Ribsteine left the boy naked. He’d affectionately nicknamed him BB, Blonde Boy, and the boy responded to it, no longer acknowledging the name his mother had given him. The German man didn’t just teach him how to clean a glossy table properly, he also taught the basics of defending himself, and he even let the boy go to the gym. He no longer wanted to be the scrawny scared boy that was beaten and robbed in the street, so every night he went out, first to the gym, then to the streets where he constantly picked fights. 

At the mansion the Doctor barely acknowledged him unless he misbehaved and after having caught him running down the hallway to the front door, Ribsteine had gripped him by the collar of his red leather jacket and pulled him over his lap.

“Aw come on Doc ple-!!”

The first smack always made him squeal like a piglet. The Doctor mercilessly wrenched the boy’s tracksuit pants down and repeatedly peppered his ass with hard spanks over and over until he was sore and sobbing. At 21 years old, the boy didn’t look older than 15, and when being pulled over the older man’s lap, he sure fucking felt 15 too. This was the only time he really saw Ribsteine smile, when he was punishing him. The other time he saw the man smile was when he molested him. The larger man would often silently stalk into his room at night; he’d pin him down, bite his throat, choke him and slap him until he was screaming into the pillows. He rammed his cock into him and the Blonde Boy tried to fight, pulling his wrists away and trying to turn around, but it was no use. He always ended up letting the man have his way with him. 

Until he got him by surprise.

A year or so had passed and the Blonde boy was not only beginning to expand on his street smarts, but also his muscle mass. He’d taken up baseball ‘cause he liked the feel of the bat, soon he took the bat everywhere with him. No longer was he beaten and bruised on his way home from the gym, he got them by surprise, beat them, then left them for dead in whatever alleyway they’d crawled out from. Soon he was intentionally attacking the thugs and had racked up quite the kill count in the process, however, nobody paid any mind, this filthy city was huge and nobody cared about street rats. 

One night, he heard the Doctor enter his room and remained still, planning his time carefully he waited until he felt the weight on the bed before striking, throwing a hard punch in the Doctor’s face before slamming him down on his back. The Doctor, though still fit for being in his fifties was caught by surprise, pinned by the boy who repeatedly punched him in the face. When the blonde boy was done, Dr.Ribsteine raised his hands and slowly clapped; a smile on his bloody face. Finally, he had something to be proud of. After that the Blonde boy was unstoppable, he didn’t come home until early morning and he no longer cleaned the Doctor’s home, instead he ran more dangerous errands. Sometimes he smuggled drugs, sometimes he killed drug smugglers. He was given photographs of people the Doctor wanted killed and he did it, the blonde boy never asked questions. 

One night he was about to leave when the Doctor stopped him.

“Too long.”

The German explained, taking the boy by the showers and directing him to the bathroom, having him take a seat. The boy squirmed and put up a small fight but was compliant, after all this man was paying him a good wage and at this point he was used to his mannerisms. Today he took out some scissors and after combing the boy’s hair, began to cut it for him.

“Taken up hair dressing have you Doc?”

His words were ignored, the man rarely responded, most likely he disapproved of the way the boy had tried to cut it. He cut the sides and back short and left the front nice and long as always. Setting the scissors down and combing his hair back for him before beginning to gel it as he always had it. The Doctor hummed as he worked, those eyes working well despite his poor vision. The boy would never admit it but he enjoyed these little bonding sessions. 

The years passed and people were beginning to want to employ the lad themselves after seeing his handiwork, he left the Doctor’s home to pursue a new life of bounty hunting, but the two remained in touch, the Doctor often employing him himself. 

XXX

“It’s all here.”

The man of very little words announced. In his mid-sixties now, the Doctor was still a domineering bastard of a man. His shoulders still large and square, emphasised by the beautifully crafted uniforms he wore, those eyes always watching, years of wisdom behind them. The small blonde lad crawled back into his lap, cuddling into his neck and was dully ignored as the Doctor put the money away into a drawer. 

“Good boy.”

It was hard to tell whether he’d been talking to the boy or the Basher.


	4. Pizza

Pizza was a regular thing at the Boston Basher’s place. It was always ordered over the phone by his Sister [Or his Ma, she was both after all], and the deranged family of four dug in. BB was a pretty generous guy and if they had any hookers over at the time, he also treated them, nothing tasted better than a filthy broad’s mouth with the slight hint of Domino’s pepperoni passion. 

It was an average evening with the average phone call, ordering four pizzas and two sides. The company gave out free garlic bread and a bottle of cola if you spent over $15, to BB, this was a steal because it meant breakfast would be sorted the next morning for the two boys at his feet. Buttercream, the blue haired boy was currently lying on his belly, ass up and thighs spread wide. He wore only a tiny blue thong, which most likely belonged to their Ma, the thong was wet with the other boy’s saliva as he repeatedly tongued his brother’s presenting asshole. Angel Delight, the blonde brother, wore a cock ring, as punishment for cumming just that little bit too quickly. BB loved him like this, all needy and desperate, he begged and pleaded to cum, especially when Buttercream was always so horny and insatiable. 

Speaking of BB, he had that ass planted to the beaten up sofa, there was some awful soap on the cracked television set, but he was distracted by his two brothers, there was always better entertainment to be provided in the form of those two sluts. 

“Go on, Creamy; give your brother a kiss.”

He coaxed, knowing the blue haired boy would be reluctant having known where the blonde’s tongue had just been. However, they always obeyed their aggressive big brother, if they didn’t, they’d starve. Trapped in their own home, their minds practically brainwashed with Stockholm syndrome, desperate to please their abusive big brother in every way they could. He’d abused and beaten them so badly, they’d lost their memories of growing up, and little did they know that the Basher had done them a favour. After all, both boys had a terrible, filthy upbringing, suffering years of abuse as they grew, they knew nothing better now. Buttercream whimpered against Angel Delight’s mouth as the blonde began to kiss him, pinning him down on his back and forcing his slightly younger brother to spread his thighs while having him taste himself. Immediately the pair began to rub their cocks together, bucking and squirming, moaning against one another’s mouths as hands roamed. 

“Get on the phone to the company, will ya Ma!”

BB shouted out to the trembling woman in the kitchen. The Company was the business that hired the Basher to do the dirty work, contractors mostly. 

“Tell em I got nothing on next week.”

He scratched his arm pit, and then raised a hand to fix his hair, curling that bleach blonde quiff back. There was silence, the sound of the old phone dialling then the faint muffle of his Ma’s voice as she spoke softly to the lady on the other end. During the time of their conversation, BB had lit up his half smoked cigar and was puffing contentedly as he returned his attention to the two boys on the floor, while listening half-heartedly to the conversation going on in the kitchen. Buttercream was suckling onto Angel’s nipple and the blonde boy was so desperate and frustrated that he was humping at the air excitedly like a canine. He looked up at BB with those big blue eyes, whimpering as drool run down his chin. 

“Please…Please..please let me cum, please! I’ll be a good boy!”

He pleaded. The Basher opened his mouth to reply when his Ma returned, a nervous smile on her thin lips as she spoke.

“You have a full week’s work, but nothing on the weekend…”

“…Good.”

Smoke billowed from between his lips, eyes narrowing as he shifted his glance to the woman, who remained where she was.

“…What?”

“Your employer is Dr.Ribsteine.”

He nodded, shifting his form on the couch, nine times out of ten that Doctor wanted him for something or another. He’d already listened to the details on the phone; the German didn’t pay nearly as much as the others because BB had agreed on doing him a discount. A decision he regretted to this day.

“You’d think with that goddamn strip bar he’d have plenty of jocks to do his dirty work.”

“You know he likes you…likes to…give you his money.”

He shrugged her off just as there was a knock on the door. She turned to go to it but he stopped her, stubbing his cigar out and moving to the door himself. He made sure to open it nice and wide, so that the pizza delivery guy got full view of what was going down on the living room floor. At this point, in his desperation, Angel was balls deep inside his younger brother, repeatedly rutting into him, the pair of them moaned and whimpered, desperate and excited. The delivery guy was quiet for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the boys.

“You like what you see, fella?”

The Basher’s words brought him back to earth and he held the pile of pizzas out, along with the bag of sides and cola. BB turned to his Ma, who took the warm burden from him and hurried off into the kitchen to get things organised in the filthy place. 

“…And if I do, mate?”

The delivery guy eventually spoke, after thumbing through the filthy notes that’d been handed to him. The Basher stood aside and held a hand out. 

“They love making strangers real happy, ain’t that right boys? Though you ain’t a stranger to me, you’re Paul right? Micky’s kid?”

“That’s right…yeah.”

The Basher called out and the two immediately stopped what they were doing, those large eyes peering up at their older brother and the delivery guy. They nodded, bodies trembling with want as drool glossed and wet their plump lips. 

“When do you get off?”

“This is..my last delivery, got a new job, down at the laundrette.”

“I know the one, buddy, I know the one. Come in, come in.”

XXX

Soon Paul, the Pizza delivery guy was lying on the sofa, thighs spread and cock hanging out of his unzipped pants. Both boys immediately crawled to him, stroking up his legs and licking the man’s cock. They licked at one another’s tongues, moaning as they kissed one another, a line of drool between their lips, which broke when they lavished attention to Paul’s cock. In the kitchen, their poor Ma had her face shoved into a boiling hot pizza, slammed against the counter and repeatedly getting her pussy spread by the Basher’s fat cock, who pinned her there as she sobbed against the hot tomato, cheese all matted and tangled in her hair. 

Back in the living room, Paul was on his knees on the ratty old rug in front of the television. He had Buttercream pinned down, and was repeatedly fucking him, the boy squealed like a well-trained prostitute, calling the delivery boy’s cock big and hot and all the things Paul wanted to hear. Angel soon silenced his brother, stuffing his lips with his own cock, which throbbed with need. He knew if he removed that cock ring, the Basher would surely beat him. The Blonde boy leaned forward to kiss Paul on the mouth, and it was right then there was a bang, followed by a face full of blood and brains. Both boys directed their gaze towards the doorway of the kitchen in shock, there the Boston Basher stood, the smoke still seeping from the Glock in his hand. 

Both boys shuffled away, the dead man’s cock slipping out of Buttercream’s loose slutty ass, they huddled together, kissing and licking one another’s faces as the Basher approached, kicking the corpse onto its back. 

“Alright Ma, grab your coat, we got a body to plant.”

She was still washing her face in the kitchen, trying as hard as she could to get the mangled cheese out of her scraggy locks. She took the two boy’s pizzas and brought them over to them, stroking their hair and kissing their forehead.

“You heard the conversation on the phone?”

“Nothing goes on around here without me knowing, Princess.”

The Basher snorted, removing the glove that’d been holding the Standard police issue piece, placing both in a zip lock bag and throwing it at the poor woman, who’d just managed to bundle herself up into her fur coat. She stuffed the bag into the inside jacket, pulling the coat close around her malnourished frame as he threw on his leather jacket, pointing at the door. 

“Trash bags?”

“Back of the car.”

He grunted, watching her go before glancing to the two boys, who were happily tucking into their pizzas like stray dogs that’d been starved.

“When I get back I want the pair of you bent over, asses up and cheeks spread.”

The Basher snapped and the two trembled, nodding, watching the man’s turned back as he left the house with a slam of the door. As soon as they heard the car pull away, Buttercream was pulling off Angel’s cock ring and immediately began to suck on his swollen length, stroking his brother’s thighs. 

Needless to say, not only didn’t it take long for Angel Delight to cum, but Buttercream made sure there wasn’t even a drop of evidence left!


End file.
